Standoff
by patricia51
Summary: Two tributes from the same district face the moment of truth and each other. Clove/Cato.


Standoff by patricia51

(Two tributes from the same district face the moment of truth and each other. Clove/Cato.)

Here we are. I finger my last knife. It's all come down to this. And what am I going to do?

I try to find a position that eases the pain. Not an easy thing since I can barely stand up. I don't dare look at my leg where that mutt closed its teeth. In fact I don't dare look anywhere except at the person standing just a few feet in front of me with a look on his bleeding face that probably matches the one I'm sure is on mine.

All I can think of is "Those BASTARDS."

We knew coming into the Games that only one of us was going to come out. Well, I know he was as sure that he would be the victor as I was that it would be me. We're not like those sacrificial lambs that come from most of the districts. We've been training for years for this. We came here in the peak of physical conditioning, capable of using all sorts of weapons, ruthless and intent on winning.

What a time for my mind to wander off into the past. But for the first time since the Games started, for the first time in years, I have no idea what to do. So maybe that's why I try to figure out how all those years of planning ended up with us at this point.

We started at ten years old getting ready for this. Twelve of the most promising kids, six boys and six girls; chosen for strength, speed, agility not just at that age but how we are expected to develop over the next eight years. No cannon fodder comes from District Two; our bodies won't litter the Cornucopia after the initial bloodbath is over. No, we'll be the ones littering the place with everyone else's bodies.

District Two has won more Hunger Games than any other two districts put together, including District One. We work in the finest facilities with the most dedicated trainers. And we dedicate ourselves to being the best. Because of course that's the only way one of us is going to get to come home.

One of us. Beginning at fourteen the trainers began to work us together at pairs. After all, that's the way we'll compete. We rotate, each boy and girl working together for two months. At the end of the year the decision is made who your partner will be. And mine was Cato.

I was glad. We complimented each other perfectly. Sure Cato can throw a spear with deadly accuracy almost as far as I can throw a knife. But I can carry a LOT of knives. And in the end, well the end up till this moment, it turned out to be a damn good thing I could.

Cato's weapon of choice has always been the sword. Oh he's incredible with any hand held weapon but with the sword he is unbeatable. At least at close range. Which is fine, he's got me for distance work. I can throw a knife with pinpoint accuracy farther than most people can imagine. We complement each other.

It doesn't hurt of course that Cato is tall, blonde, muscled and handsome. The kind that sponsors will line up all around the block to rain presents on. Oh I'm not ugly by any measure, although I'm not the gorgeous blonde type like Glimmer is. Was. Before the tracker jackers got her that is. But I'm cute enough and I fit nice under Cato's arm.

Oh God, what a time to think about that. But the thing is that when you are thrown together with someone for years on end with the finale being a life or death confrontation you end up either hating or loving that other person. And in my case, OUR case thank goodness, it turned out to be love.

So funny I guess. Our trainers and our mentors always took us aside and warned us. Depend on your partner but remember at the end there can only be one victor. Sooner or later you'll have to decide, him or you.

For over a year we have been shoving that knowledge into the back of our minds. Hell we were only sixteen when we first kissed. And it was right after our seventeenth birthdays, coming within a week of each other that those kisses snowballed into so much more and one or the other of us would be tiptoeing down the hallways in the early morning hours, headed for our own room from the others'.

I wonder if it was then that the first doubts began to creep into our minds, late at night when I rested my head on his chest and we held each other. Why shouldn't what we have together go on? Why would it have to end like some Greek tragedy in only a few more months? Oh yes, our schooling covers those. They're very big on the ancients, both Roman and Greeks. Indeed sometime we've thought the motto of our training facility should be "Go tell the Spartans". Would one of us have to kill the other? Still though, the years of training and being taught what the goal of our lives is aren't easily overcome. When the Reaping Day arrived we were as eager as any other pair to be chosen. And we were. Not a surprise really. All false modesty aside Cato and I ARE the best.

By the way, the idea that we became the Districts Tributes by killing the other contending teams is stupid. The others are good, we're just fractionally better. If we conquered one other team let alone five we would be so crippled we would not be able to stagger into the arena even weeks later.

We followed our mentors' advice and directions. We strove to intimidate the other Tributes, showing off just how good we were and how the others should be afraid of us. But it's more than just arrogant showing off, even as we joined with Marvel and Glimmer at lunch. It's a way to see who is NOT intimidated. Those are the ones we need to watch.

The night before the Games began we spent the entire time in my bedroom, rising only to go to the main room for breakfast together. Our mentors rolled their eyes. Oh sure they knew what was going on, unemotional sexual involvements are winked at as long as they are discreet. After all, some steam has to be blown off. But it's not supposed to be blatant. But right then what did we care? Even my rushing back to the bathroom for my morning ritual didn't detract from the moment.

Before I entered the tube my mentor reminded me once more that there would only be a single victor. I shrugged. I knew it. But for the next several days I would have to depend on Cato as never before. Probably some other tribute would solve the dilemma for us one way or the other.

The longest sixty seconds of my life passed and the Games were on. I ran for the center of the Cornucopia, confident that Cato would have my back. He did, taking out two other tributes before they could even threaten me. Then I found the bundle of knives and I was just as dangerous as he was. One hard throw and a boy with an axe was history. And I was elated. My first kill. No matter how perverse it sounded my training showed itself and I demonstrated I was one of the very best ever.

Over the next few days I probably showed myself to be as blood thirsty as any competitor in the Games ever was, matched only by Cato's ferocity. I wouldn't be surprised if some watchers didn't think we were psychopaths. We're not; contrary to what some believe those kinds of people make poor Tributes. They're so exultant over killing they forget they too can be killed and usually end up as part of the opening bell bloodbath's casualties. But I had an extra reason for acting as I did. Of course the first goal of it all was to instill more fear in the others, make their weapons shake in their hands. "Watch out, Clove is coming for you!" But then there was the other thing, the thing that made me even wilder to survive. The secret.

Two secrets actually. The first was no longer a secret by the time Cato and I found us facing each other. That last morning before the start the whispers under the covers had been picked up by the Capital. Our hurried, quiet declarations of love might as well have been shouted from the top of the Tribute building. How else to explain the rule change, the change that meant the pair of us could be co-victors? Sure it was any pair from the same district but I didn't know of any others that felt like we did.

So survive I did along with the killing machine that I love and was finally able to show just how much I did love. There were just four of us left when the Game Masters turned loose the pack of mutt wolf-like creatures to drive us all together and make the final fight memorable. It was. The mutts did for the other two tributes and we did for the mutts. Injured and bleeding though we were we were triumphant. And then it happened.

The rolling unctuous voice proclaiming the revoking of the rule change. SO self-satisfied, so pleased with itself that it has found a way to make even the tremendous fight of a few minutes ago meaningless compared to the breathless excitement of watching the two lovers face one another. In that moment I hated the voice, the Games and the Capital as never before.

Here we are. I finger my last knife. It's all come down to this. And what am I going to do?

I find to my own surprise and shock that I'm weighing the odds. Can I get Cato with my last knife? Could he bat it away? If so I'll be defenseless. He's almost in sword range of me anyway. One spring and he'll have me. He's in guard position, the sword pointed up and towards me. Even as battered and wounded as he is no one knows better than me just how quick he is, how strong, how determined. And then he shakes his head, steps back and lowers his blade.

"No," he says quietly.

I just stand there. Maybe my eyes do the talking for me because I can't think of a thing to say. His eyes are so expressive too. The fire is gone, the touch of madness vanished. He's just tired. As tired as I am. I drop my knife and throw myself into his arms. If it's a trick then he has me. I'm completely at his mercy, a word very few people would think Cato even knows the meaning of. But his arms go around me, Clove the killer, and I am safe.

Of course that won't last. The Game Masters are not to be thwarted. A chorus of howls rises from the nearby woods. If we won't decide then they will decide for us. The howls grow close quickly and we can see shapes through the trees, twisted grotesque shapes that make the wolf creatures look normal.

Damaged or not Cato is swift. He pushes me to the Cornucopia. We can't climb it; neither of us is capable of that by now. But he finds a bit of a corner and he shelters me as best he can before turning to face the pack of oncoming things, putting himself between them and me.

"Come on!" he shouts, pulling himself up proudly. "Nothing gets to her except over me." He points the sword at the mutts. "Not to her, not to our child."

The world reels in front of me. How did he know? It's only been the last week that I put it all together myself and realized that everything was pointing to one conclusion. I'm pregnant. And Cato is the father obviously; I've never been with anyone else.

I must be standing there with my mouth open because Cato, no longer my killing machine but now my "parfect gentle knight" (yes we have been fed a steady diet of noble warriors throughout the ages) laughs, laughs boyishly even, something I never could have ever imagined of him.

"Oh Clove, you think I didn't know? Of course I know you're pregnant. I have for the last few days." With that he wraps an arm around me and kisses me as soundly and firmly as he ever has before he thrusts me behind him again and turns with a smile on his face and the unwavering tip of his sword presented in salute.

As though figures in a comedy the oncoming mutts suddenly stop so suddenly they fall over each other into a squirming pile. When they shake themselves and get back up they mill around, not paying us any attention at all. What is going on?

It isn't until much later that we find out the storm of protest that reached the Game Makers. Not from the districts of course but from the Capital citizens. So much noise that the ground splits and the mutts leap in as the voice of Claudia Templesmith booms around us.

"Ladies and gentlemen, by popular demand I present the winners of the Annual Hunger Games. From District Two, Cato Griffin and Clove Honor!"

I'll be damned. Cato drops his sword and gathers me in a fierce embrace, one that I return as fiercely. I'll be damned. For the first time there isn't a single victor but rather three. I wonder exactly how I'll tell this to our child.

(The End)

(Yes I deliberately left out exactly which Hunger Games this was. Can't be the 74th for, as we all know, Katniss and Peeta won that one. And that s why they aren't here. No matter how fascinated I was with Clove and Cato I simply couldn't let their victory be over the bodies of one of my favorite couples in the whole world. Oh and I invented last names for them.)

(Note: The book goes much more into the feelings that Cato has for Clove at least, feelings I just don't see as being one-sided. There certainly doesn't seem to be any hint of the scene from the book where Katniss sees an anguished Cato kneeling by a mortally wounded Clove and begging her not to die. Anyway I wanted to explore what might have happened if they were the couple facing each other at the end and dive a little more into what makes the pair of them tick.)


End file.
